


Awaiting blood on the forest floor

by chickens_for_AO3



Series: CoG Tournament Practice [3]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Gen, Kinda different from the regular Hunger Games AU, Oneshot, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:26:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28100121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickens_for_AO3/pseuds/chickens_for_AO3
Summary: He'd moved before his mind caught up, volunteering before he'd even realized the words had left his mouth. The Capitol's wealth wasn't new compared to his life in Two, but the imminent death was knew.Dream volunteers in place of a kid, convinced there was no trained Career to save them. He's remade into someone new, a faceless mystery, hated by his district and longing for home.
Series: CoG Tournament Practice [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1853944
Kudos: 18





	Awaiting blood on the forest floor

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy!

The hallway was bright and clean, overhead lights reflecting off smooth marble floors. Clay’s sneakers whispered along the hallway, carrying him to the Training Center. 

It was cold, machines humming quietly along the hallway. His lime-green hoodie, synthetic and fake-smelling, did nothing to shield from the cold, the light breeze making him shiver. It was a far cry from the soft, sensible clothing of District 2 he was used to wearing.

Clay lifted his chin, shoving his thoughts back into place. He shouldn’t be thinking of home.

He was one of the last tributes to enter the large room. He felt the eyes of the others flick over him, from the loud green hoodie to his blindingly-white mask.

The instructor began to talk of the different stations that made up the Training Center, highlighting the survival skills they might need in the Arena. 

Clay tuned them out, glancing around the room at the different areas. He noted a couple, camouflage, ropes and knots, plant identification- to try out. 

He snapped back into focus as the other tributes began to move, most of the group heading towards combat stations. 

It was easy, Dream supposed, to lose himself in the simple things. Whether it be the clang of iron, the woosh of hot air from the furnaces, or the soft rustling of rope, warm colors mixing into the scene around him as he painted. 

The other tributes ignored him, one or two exchanging pleasantries before blending back into their own groups. 

He hadn’t bothered to learn their names. Things would be difficult enough in the Arena without having to worry about keeping someone else safe. 

It was a while before he could stumble back to his room, arms sore from different activities, hands dyed from the many pigments. His mask clacked on the table as he threw it down, running his hands through his hair. 

Only the first day, he told himself. Private sessions were soon, then the start of the Games. 

Clay was barely able to eat that night, choking on the rich foods, awfully similar to home. 

But home didn’t taste like plastic, home didn’t sound like time ticking down, home didn’t press against his shoulders with the fear of tomorrow. Home was anywhere but here.

Clay buried his head into his pillow, convincing himself, for a split second, it was cat fur.

\----

It was still dark when he awoke, jolting back into reality from whatever fleeting nightmare his mind had conjured up when he slept. He threw the blankets off of himself, cool air rushing in. Clay paced, barely making any noise against the soft carpeted floors. Static wormed under his skin, nervousness coiled in his chest. 

Days like this were hard, even at home.

Making up his mind, Clay snatched the mask off his table, glaring down at the odd material. He reminded himself it meant nothing. There was no one on the other side of the mask to hurt anymore.

He traded the soft clothes for his sweatshirt, Capitol fabrics unnaturally soft against his skin. Clay snagged some food from the table, eyes flicking over the excess going to waste on the table. The memory of frozen hands, bundles of rags, crumbling sheds lining the outside of town flashed in his mind, a violent shiver racking up his body. 

Clay arrived at the Training Center early, staring around the empty room for a couple moments. He glanced at the bows, the polished wood and plastics gleaming in the bright overhead lights. 

It was easy to concentrate on aiming, arrows sinking to the straw targets on the other side of the room. He wasn’t very good, but it was something to do.

\----

“We’re doing private sessions, Two.” a newcomer spat. Clay looked up, surprised.

The rest of the tributes had been watching him as he spaced out, eyes moving from the bow in his hands to the scattered arrows in the target.

Time moved terribly slow once he stepped into line with the other tributes. The girl from One had already gone, leaving him at the front of the line of tributes.

They'd once had a boy and a girl for every year, he'd once been told. But the population sunk steadily, the richest districts slowly crumbling from the inside out. 

His hands tapped against his mask as he went to brush sweat out of his eyes, forgetting it was there. Clay lowered them slowly, glancing at the doors. The Avoxes ushered him into the room, the doors shutting quietly with a click. 

He glanced towards the weapons table, then at the judges. He got a small nod in return, pausing as he looked over the silvery blades. 

Clay picked up a long-handled axe. It couldn't be that different from a hammer, right?

The dummy stood stiffly a couple feet away, holding in a rough defensive stance. 

He'd never been so glad for the silence, the dummy nothing more than canvas and stuffing.

It was strange, Clay thought. All those years training to lug rocks around, the extra money he got from small repair jobs on the street... just didn't matter the way they used to.

Clay stopped, the last bits of cotton fluttering off the dummy onto the ground. The longer he stared, the sicker he felt.

It took all of his strength to move, shuffling unsteadily towards the door. He distantly heard someone dismiss him, ready halfway to the elevator.

Dinner was short and terrible. His mentor off at a party, entertaining the filthy rich, and everyone else hadn't even said hello as he walked in, eyes fixed on the screen in front of them.

He couldn't choke down any food, the smell and sound if everything overwhelming. Punching a wall wouldn't do anything to help, Clay thought. He forced himself to uncurl his fists.

\----

It was early when he woke the next morning, the loud knocking on the door announcing the arrival of his stylists.

There wasn't very much to do, with his mask covering his entire face. He'd gotten a 5 last night, according to them. The lowest score District Two had in a decade.

But his score barely mattered. Any physical advantages were obvious in the uniforms they had to wear. Tossing around all that stone finally paid off. 

It was a simple exercise outfit, grey and red sweater and black leggings, complete with an oddly reflective jacket. His sneakers were springy, far too clean and hi-tech then the ones he wore back at home.

It wasnt easy for him to ignore the sting in his arm as the tracker went in, heart beating wildly.

His stylist walked Clay onto the plate. glass surrounding him as the plate rose, world going quiet. 

He took a deep breath as the world came into view. Time ticked down from ten, eyes locked into the darkly colored packs sitting at the edge of the cornucopia.

Dream stepped off his plate, entering into the Arena.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


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